


If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy really likes cooking. <i>Other</i> people cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Knew You Were Coming I'd Have Baked A Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a Gracie Fields song.

Leonard McCoy first lays eyes on his future wife at a funeral and falls in love with her at the wake.

Falls in lust with her, at least. It isn't anything he sees coming and years down the line he'll maintain that it wasn't even his _fault_ ; he's just standing there giving his damn condolences to the grieving widow when Jocelyn walks in behind him, a casserole dish of steaming heaven in her hands, and whispers to the deceased's sister, "I'm sorry I took so long, this needed a few more minutes in the oven to be just right."

That night McCoy dreams of Jocelyn Darnell and her chocolate souffle, and wakes up with a mess in his shorts and a determination to track her down and get her to go out with him.

A year later they're married. He's pretty damn sure that a year after that, their daughter is conceived with the smell of cinnamon in the air and Jocelyn bent over the center island, her scrabbling hands knocking bottles of spices to the floor.

By a year after Joanna's birth, his father is dead and his marriage is crumbling. McCoy starts steering clear of the kitchen entirely.

The confusion is more than he can handle.

Once the divorce goes through, McCoy quickly discovers an unadvertised perk of enlisting: at Starfleet Academy, nobody _cooks_. For McCoy, raised in a town where hospitality could still be measured in terms of the complexity of the recipe undertaken, there's more than a small amount of comfort in that.

And still he's not entirely free. Once on a lark he and Jim wander into an actual restaurant on their way to a night of drinking instead of a hole in the wall, and when the head chef visits their table to make sure they're enjoying their meal, McCoy stares up at her heat-reddened cheeks and goes hard in his pants in an instant.

He blows an entire week's worth of credits on three more meals there before getting her attention, getting her number, and getting an opportunity to meet her after closing one night. In bed with her, he presses his face to her hair, breathes in the scent of everything she'd made that night.

It doesn't last, can't last when the only thing that really attracts him to her is obsessive thoughts of her creating culinary miracles. But at the very least it's a hell of a way to put an end to a long and celibate year.

Still, he avoids restaurants after that. Bakeries, too. There may be only so much satisfaction to be found in his own hand, but he's for damn sure not ready to _date_ yet and indulging this...predilection is a whole other sort of complicated he could just do without.

Six months later he comes home after a long clinic shift to find Jim Kirk in his kitchen.

In his kitchen, sprawled in a chair directly across from the oven, lazily licking a spoon streaked with what look suspiciously like...batter. "Jim," he says, stopped short in the doorway. His voice comes out a hoarse croak. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Bones!" Jim looks up at him with a disappointed and vaguely guilty expression. "Hey, man, you...weren't supposed to get home just yet. Damn." Before McCoy can even _think_ of repeating his inquiry, Jim's features brighten. "Oh well, I'm glad you're here! Do you have any potholders? I couldn't find any and I'll need a couple when this is ready to come out."

McCoy can feel heat burning into his face and a pressure in his chest, tension from trying to suppress something he doesn't want to _feel_ , damn it.

His cock ignores him and aches regardless. "I don't cook," he grinds out.

Jim rolls his eyes. "Yeah, _apparently_. I had to buy everything, you didn't even have flour! Who doesn't have flour, Bones?"

"The same kind of person who doesn't have any damn potholders, Jim, what are you _doing_?"

"I'll use towels, I guess," Jim says absently. He gets up to move past McCoy, on his way to the bathroom presumably, and McCoy catches sight of -- jesus _christ_ \-- a small, suspiciously thumb-shaped smear of flour on Jim's left cheek. "'Scuse me -- hey, your mom says hi, by the way."

McCoy steps dumbly aside. The air reeks of vanilla and Jim has been talking to his mother and something sinful is hidden away in his oven that _Jim created_ \-- he stumbles over to Jim's abandoned chair and sinks into it, cradles his too-hot face in his hands.

In his biggest mistake yet, bigger even than knowing Jim, than giving Jim his security code, than _having a kitchen in the first place_ , he peeks through the glass in the oven door.

Crust of some sort bubbles thickly along the edges of a baking dish.

McCoy squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. When he hears Jim come back he looks up and glares. "What is that, Jim?"

"Weeeeell," Jim draws out, squinting sheepishly. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Jim, I swear to all that is holy, if you don't tell me what the _fuck_ is in my oven right now..."

Jim shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Umm...it's peach cobbler. Your mom said it was your favorite when you were a kid and...happy birthday?"

Jim is concerned. McCoy can _tell_ Jim is concerned. McCoy is pretty damn sure he probably looks like he's about to have a massive coronary, but he can't really be bothered to care.

He gets up and bolts for the bathroom in a fervent attempt to avoid embarrassing himself.

He should have known it wouldn't be of any use. He probably would have, were his brain firing on any but the one, overwhelming cylinder. In the time he's known Jim, the thing that has made itself most apparent about the kid is that when something has caught his attention, he doesn't let it go.

Ever.

So it's no real surprise that ten seconds after McCoy engages the lock on the bathroom door, Jim _dis_ engages it like picking an electronic lock is as simple as picking his damn nose, and pokes his head in. "Bones, are you ok--ohhhhh."

McCoy curls the fingers of one hand tightly over the rim of the sink and goes right on stripping his cock desperately with his other. "Get out!" he snarls. "For the love of God, Jim, take your cobbler and get _out_."

Jim just stares at him with wide eyes and doesn't move. Also not a surprise. "Bones," he breathes. He glances back towards the kitchen, then at McCoy again. "Are you -- is this -- oh my god, does baking get you _hot_?"

Something breaks loose inside McCoy, some taut thread of control keeping him in check for so long. With a low groan he pushes off the sink and stumbles at Jim, grabs his shirt and propels him against the opposite wall. Jim's mouth, slack with shock, accepts his tongue with gratifying ease.

"Son of a bitch," McCoy mutters. Jim huffs and catches on, and when he rubs a leg along the outside of McCoy's, McCoy hitches it up and grinds in, thrusting his cock against the rough surface of Jim's jeans. "You had to go and _bake_ , didn't you?" Jim laughs against his panting mouth, and laughs some more when McCoy growls and hoists him up the wall entirely, juggling his weight until it's secure and Jim is pinned in place. "I was trying to _ignore_ this thing with you, you little shit."

"What the fuck for?" Jim gasps. He fists McCoy's hair and attacks with a focused hunger, lips slick and tongue seeking like there's something to _find_ deep in McCoy's mouth. "Fuck, Bones -- c'mon, bed, bed would be good -- god, I'd've baked for you ages ago if, if I'd known -- _fuck_!"

McCoy adjusts his grip and stumbles almost blindly for his bed, where he dumps Jim in a heap and curses under his breath at how eagerly Jim bounces back up and starts peeling off his shirt. "Where the hell do you get off knowing how to cook, anyway?" he grumbles.

"Bake," Jim corrects cheerfully. "My mom taught me how to bake. If it has sugar in it, I could probably make it for you -- oh god, Bones, I have to make you her specialty cookies sometimes, they take like, _hours_ to get the dough right but they're so worth it --"

McCoy moans softly and tackles Jim onto the mattress, wrestling him down even as he tries to kick his pants free. "I hate you," he snaps, and starts wrenching at Jim's jeans.

A loud beeping starts sounding from the kitchen and Jim gasps, shoves McCoy off with ease. "Hold that thought!" he laughs.

To _hell_ with holding that thought, McCoy thinks darkly, and he stalks after Jim with intent. Jim's back is a landscape of pale skin and bunched muscles and the jut of his shoulder blades as he bends and carefully pulls the bubbling dish of cobbler out of the oven with towel-wrapped hands. The sight of Jim setting it on a cooling rack and leaning in to eye it critically, the aroma hitting McCoy like a tidal wave -- he's on Jim in two short steps and yanking him away, yanking him back into another kiss. "Leave it, it's perfect," he growls.

Jim says something unintelligible around McCoy's tongue. "Mmph," he goes on, and finally breaks off. "Um, okay, just -- you know what?"

" _What_?"

Jim's only response is to drop to his knees and take McCoy's cock in hand, three swift pumps before he guides the length into his hot, laughing mouth. "Jim!" McCoy gasps, and grips his hair. "Mother _fucker_ \--"

Jim grabs his ass and takes him deep, sucks hungrily and bobs his head rapidly. McCoy can't help but spread his feet and thrust, fucking Jim's mouth steadily. By the time Jim pulls off his chin is shiny with spit and his lips red and plump. "Okay," he says breathlessly, grabbing at McCoy's hands as he climbs to his feet. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do."

McCoy's fingers curl, itching to get latched onto Jim again in some way. "Yeah?" he says impatiently.

With a roll of his eyes, Jim reaches to flick the oven off. "First? I'm gonna tell you _all_ about what's in those cookies -- while I fuck your brains out. Then we're gonna eat some of this 'cause _dude_ , I have outdone myself this time, _look_ at that, Bones --"

McCoy gives into the damn itch already and hauls Jim back to bed.


End file.
